


Path of Most Resistance

by bluetears07



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Kink Meme, M/M, The Adjustment Bureau - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-15
Updated: 2011-10-16
Packaged: 2017-10-24 16:25:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/265522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluetears07/pseuds/bluetears07
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Adjustment Bureau AU: According to The Plan, John is meant to be with Sarah. As John's caseworker, it is Sherlock's job to ensure this happens. But John is full of surprises. (Knowledge of the Film Unnecessary)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Path of Most Resistance

Mycroft always said that three made a pattern. Three was the minimum threshold for recognition of intent and precision, and thus a pattern. One, there was no suggestion of potential repetition. Two could merely be a coincidence, a mistake. Book ends. Three, however, that was something dubious.

A flaw in the Plan.

So the first time John Watson failed to meet Sarah Sawyer, Sherlock could only blame Chance.

It was only after much cajoling and posturing from Mycroft that Sherlock finally agreed to the reassignment. Apparently, John Watson’s former caseworker had made the grave mistake of getting caught adjusting the man’s sister and had come clean with John about the bureau’s existence. Mycroft had allowed the young man to keep his memory, as he was such a boring, non-threatening specimen. Instead, he opted to force Lestrade into an early retirement. So, Sherlock was given the case and told to stay a good distance away until pivotal moments called him to the fore.

The first of which was supposed to happen in the university library. Co-eds bonding over moth-eaten pages of textbooks, all the same jokes about how nice it was to have a 'hands on' study partner for anatomy. How tired. Really, sometimes it seemed that Mycroft was running out of original ideas for these little romances he fancied. The two were in their second year and had managed to exist in wholly different social spheres without ever encountering one another. Until the Sunday before exams, at least according to the Plan.

All Sherlock needed to do was drop a book. Any book, it did not matter. Just drop the book and keep walking. No residual ripples, only John and Sarah would notice. Well, it was a bit more specific than that. He had to drop the book while walking past Sarah's desk, neatly situated near the physiological reference section that John would be browsing at exactly 21:34 Sunday night. But, Sherlock could certainly manage such a simple task. The book would fall, loud and dramatic per Sherlock's style, and the couple would glance down, look up, lock eyes and their little love story would blossom. Twenty years, and three children later they would laugh about the story while recounting it over and over again for their three brats.

Only John, noble, quick and nimble John Watson, apparently had other ideas.

He barely glanced at Sarah, briefly meeting her eyes and offering an apologetic smile, as if he had been the one to drop the book. But instead of falling head over heals, he bent to scoop the book up and silently hustle after Sherlock. John’s hand caught the crook of his elbow a half step short of reaching the proper door that would allow him to escape to Waterloo Station.

"I think you dropped this." His expression was bright and surprising as he pressed the tome on apiology back into the pale fingers of Sherlock's open hands. Sherlock remembers a huff of a laugh, tired and full of what was assumed to be common suffering. "Exams, right?" Sherlock could only nod briskly and stare as John wished him the best of luck before excusing himself politely. The young man glanced back over his shoulder and gave Sherlock a look, one he had never seen on a human face, before disappearing once more into the musky stacks.

It reminded him of how other caseworkers would look when they spoke about the ineffable beauty of the Chairman's grand Plan.

So, of course, Sherlock blamed Chance.

Definitely Chance.

It was the only explanation that fit all the known variables.

Thankfully, Mycroft allowed the slight alteration for the time being. Luckily, it was not a total loss. The couple did eventually meet and briefly date a few months after the botched library incident, but their timing was dreadfully off. The spark that was meant to be there seemed to fizzle into ash in only a matter of seven short weeks.

So the Plan expanded to enfold the minor delay. It 'matured' as Mycroft would say.

 

 

The second time, however, Sherlock blamed John.

It was the day John was supposed to complete the enlisting process and become a soldier for Queen and country. He had all the proper documentation in order and according to the Plan he would take the Northern line to Old Street. Sarah and Sherlock would already be on the tube. Sherlock would ensure that no one took the seat opposite the woman, saving it for John to plop down into and gaze upon his ex-girlfriend and remember her with all the fondness of a man on the brink of emotional isolation and war. And then he would make one of the biggest choices in his little life. John would get a coffee with Sarah. Skip the final recruitment session and instead catch up with an old ex-girlfriend. He would never be deployed to Afghanistan, would never perform surgery in the desert sand, never kill a man, never get shot through the shoulder and sent home to an empty life of nightmares and solitude.

Mycroft had always been fond of epiphanies.

But John fidgeted in the seat, glancing at Sarah anxiously. Unconsciously, he began to fiddle with the cuff of his jumper. From his perch at the end of the tube compartment, Sherlock could see that his man was struggling to screw his courage up enough to speak to the oblivious woman, listening to a Walkman while reading The Sun with a sceptical expression. Valiant as ever, John opened his mouth a few times, just before an old woman stepped on board to grant him a noble exit. He quickly jumped up and offered her the seat before attempting to carefully slip past Sarah.

Sherlock furrowed his brow and the tube shuddered. With minimal ripple effects in the lives of the other passengers, Sherlock calculated that a gentle jolt would send a rather undignified John Watson tumbling into the lap of Sarah. He never thought John would wind up tripping down the short compartment, landing square against his chest.

Though he never admitted it, that instance was the first time Sherlock had made a miscalculation.

"Sorry," John apologised quickly. Sherlock stared with mild surprise to see capable hands smooth down the black fabric of his freshly rumpled three-piece suit. “Sorry,” he mumbled again, having moved away to a more appropriate distance while sorting himself.

When the young man looked up at Sherlock he could feel heat radiating off John in waves, flushed and anxious. It was strange, unprecedented. Sherlock had never been close enough to John, or any human, to feel that kind of warmth before. He wondered if it could glow brighter and considered the merits and repercussions of dragging John’s hand back to his chest.

Neither looked back to Sarah.

At the next stop, John squared his shoulders and departed, already looking the part of a soldier.

Sherlock starts to suspect that John is also to blame for the first instance.

Apparently, and Lestrade or Mycroft or anyone else for that matter really should have warned him. John Watson likes to take the path of most resistance.

Sherlock had spoken with Lestrade just after the man’s retirement. The ex-caseworker said that John Watson seemed to be constantly at odds with the Plan, bucking against the tiny details that appeared inconsequential in the short run but would eventually alter his overall role in the future. But up until now, John had merely been a minor figure in the Plan. Even with the sudden solidification of his soldier status, his overall trajectory remained stagnant. Nothing really to worry over. He had no great ambition after being invalided home, just the quiet life of a general practitioner in the busy streets of London. There were millions of other lives that would have a greater impact. And yet, there was something about the way John tugged and squirmed against the parameters of the Plan that kept Sherlock’s focus. So much so that he did not protest, not too much anyway, when Mycroft pulled him away from working on the wonderful case of a genius mystery novel writer who occasionally dabbled in criminology.

So, the first two times John missed meeting with Sarah, no irreparable damage was done, only a short delay in the inevitable.

 

 

This time, Sherlock only has himself to blame.

 

 

The pub is crowded and buzzing with human life, inane chitchat and spilled drinks at every wrong turn. Everything aside from John exists shades of shades of grey, narrowing Sherlock’s focus to a single point of interaction. Usually Sherlock avoids being this close, too easy to be mistaken for another human. However, he has found that not many make that mistake after getting a good look at him.

Sherlock unbuttons his suit coat and crosses his legs before leaning back in the dimly lit booth. He glances back and forth between the man and the open pages of his leather bound notebook.

Everything well on track.

John Watson is in his element.

Sherlock has seen him like this a thousand times before. Give the man a pint of lager, a few choice mates and a Liverpool match on the television and he can pretend like everything is just as it used to be back at university.

Innocuous. Banal. Wholly fascinating.

Each time John goes out, he manages to blend in seamlessly, become an easy fixture in a social group that would otherwise never notice his absence but nonetheless cherish his presence. If that were all there was to the man, Sherlock would have asked for a reassignment ages ago. But, he knows the soldier with nightmares and worries and a thirst for adventure lies beneath the mundane guise of dependable Doctor Watson. He saw that man be born in sand and blood the first moment they stepped into the desert of Afghanistan.

John Watson is one of the only truly self-made men who walk the earth. He is an artefact from times of free will and war. Born from Chance and missteps.

And suddenly, John is excusing himself from the pack of lads. Sherlock feels the familiar haze of something like ‘annoyance’ when he spots Sarah arriving at the pub just as his man is limping away. He glances down at the open notebook, the Plan is still on track.

“Do I know you?” John leans on the ridiculously useless cane, presenting Sherlock with a familiar warm smile.

“I assure you, we have never met.” Sherlock reassesses the situation, glancing up at John and quickly checking his body language. It's also familiar. "Oh." Unsettling. Intriguing. But, why? "Does that line usually work?" John laughs and Sherlock remembers the smiling boy in the university library.

"I'm pretty sure I've seen you before." Oh, he's sitting down now. Sherlock snaps the journal closed with one hand before John can peer over to investigate.

"You may have noticed that I was sitting alone. There was a reason for that." Sherlock bristles, slouching farther into the corner of the booth.

"You looked like you could use the company."

"I would prefer--"

"’Least let me buy you a pint." John swipes the half empty pint glass and heads back to the bar before Sherlock can protest. He follows John's movement through the crowd, carefully weaving back and forth, always mindful of his leg, until he steps up to the busy bar. Right beside his Sarah. Alone, Sherlock tugs the page marker, flipping the notebook back open with an agitated flick of his wrist.

Everything has gone haywire.

He flips the page. The green and orange lines never intersect.

Sherlock is baffled. He watches as John completely ignores the woman, opting to chat with the man seated on a stool beside him, motion up toward the television with emphatic gestures and a grin. This is the perfect opportunity and Sherlock’s mind is racing ahead to try and figure out a way to bring them together without causing a thousand unintentional ripples.

“Hope Stella’s alright.” Too late. John Watson is settling down opposite him, tucking his cane against the wall and Sherlock can feel that unmistakable warmth running over him again. “I’m John, by the way,” he adds holding out a hand as he takes a sip from his own pint.

“Sherlock,” he answers, ignoring the proffered hand. No use in a fake name.

“So what do you do, then, Sherlock?”

“I’m a consultant of sorts. Ensure that things happen when they are supposed to happen.”

“Sounds a bit dark and dangerous.” The familiar spark lights up John’s face. It is the same one that lead John to become a noble doctor and then a brave soldier and then a wounded man.

“If only.” Sherlock sighs, staring pointedly at John who had recently become much less dangerous and exciting—more frustrating. The look is lost on the clueless man. “But you like danger, don’t you, Doctor.” He changes tactics easily and a smile that should unnerve John serves to only pull the man further in.

“How’d you know I was a doctor?” A crease forms between his brows, unsure but tentatively interested.

“Guess.” Sherlock brushes it off, turning to scan the pub to check Sarah’s whereabouts.

“Lucky guess.” Doubt. His head snaps back to stare at John.

“Not really,” Sherlock replies with a flat voice. “You smell like latex, there is a slight rash on the back of your neck from where your stethoscope rubs against your skin all day and I don’t think too many people walk around with a pen light in their breast pocket.” He reaches across the table, pushing away John’s coat to pull the penlight from his pocket. “That,” he starts, clicking the light on, briefly shinning it in John’s eyes, “and, of course, the fact that this is the closest pub to St. Thomas’ Hospital and Waterloo Health Centre.” Sherlock tosses the light back; it skitters across the table to clink against John’s pint glass. “A lot of doctors' come here to unwind.” Folding his hands, Sherlock watches the dumbfound look of awe spread over John’s face.

More warmth.

“That was brilliant.”

“Yes. Thank you.” Perhaps removing his scarf would help regulate the spike in body temperature.

“Where did you learn to do that?”

Sherlock considers the question, even considers divulging his secret. After all, John already knows the Bureau exists. Once more, he makes a sweep of the pub. No sign of Sarah. She’s gone. The window has closed.

“You’re like a moth to a flame, John,” he says, grabbing his wool coat and stuffing the hat back onto his head “Excuse me.” Sherlock slips out of the booth, heading in the direction of the toilets.

He should have left twenty minutes earlier.

And of course, this time, it is Sherlock's fault.

At any rate, it was now a pattern, one that Mycroft can no longer ignore.

 

 

As soon as Sherlock twists the doorknob counter clockwise, stepping into the Bureau’s main lobby, Anthea appears with a thick dossier bumping against her hipbone. She has a sour expression on her face. Ah, yes, he has been summoned to his brother’s office to discuss the delicate matter of John Watson.

 

 

"Tea?" Mycroft asks, his pleasant veneer plastered in place as Sherlock plops into the chair opposite Mycroft. He brushes off Mycroft’s offer with a tired wave of his hand before pulling off his leather gloves. Rising from his overstuffed chair, Mycroft rounds the great mahogany desk to perch on the edge. Yes, so much more intimate like that, less formal when it comes to family. Sherlock can practically hear Mycroft’s thoughts whirling through his own mind. He slinks down further in his seat, long legs kicked out like a petulant child awaiting his parent’s reprimand.

"Why is he important?" Elbows propped on the armrests, Sherlock folds his hands together over his sternum. He cocks an eyebrow, narrowing his eyes as he observes all of his brother’s telling non-reactions.

"He's not. Not really." Mycroft shifts his weight from one foot to the other, adjusting his perch. Sherlock notes the change, filing it away under ‘suspicious brotherly conduct.’ "In the greater scheme of things,” he begins and his tone is nice and light. "But he has potential." Sherlock bites back the urge to outwardly roll his eyes at his brother’s theatrics. "With Sarah he has potential,” Mycroft adds, quickly qualifying the statement.

Cryptic, as usual.

In truth, Sherlock has always enjoyed the slight challenge of not knowing the particulars of Mycroft’s Plan, at least beyond the six pages of blueprint he is allotted. Most caseworkers only get two. It is the only benefit of being the younger, and only, brother of the Chairman. But, in Sherlock’s opinion, it is decidedly not worth the hassle. Sometimes, when he’s bored and tired of stalking the homeless while John sleeps, he’ll try to deduce the next three months of the man’s life and check himself against the extend version of the plan he possesses. However, that game always ends far too quickly for Sherlock’s liking.

But with John, as with everything concerning the man, Sherlock is starting to believe that a whole different set of rules apply. Three months is not enough. It started back in the university library. A ‘need’ to solve the convoluted puzzle, know where each fragmented piece fits and finally be able to see the entire trajectory of the man’s life. Sherlock is sure the feeling might be something akin to human hunger or thirst.

Sherlock needs to know how the man’s story ends.

He needs to know why his smile is still so bright after everything he’s seen.

He needs to know why he clings to the cane when the bullet hit his shoulder.

He needs to know why the man radiates warmth unlike any other human he’s supervised in over twenty centuries of service to the Bureau.

"As they are both doctors, I assume you are referring to some medical breakthrough they will pioneer together." Despite knowing that Mycroft will most likely see straight through his guise, force of habit prompts Sherlock to be cagey. His voice remains even, underpinned with hints of boredom and dismissal. “Is that correct?” It would be nice for John to do something so important, Sherlock thinks. Maybe give the man back a purpose in life. Finally, some adventure for the worn out soldier.

"Are you sure you don't want any tea?" Mycroft could be so painfully predictable.

Sherlock unfolds his hands with a scoff, pushing himself up in the chair before leaning forward in protest to being so rudely ignored. The sharp points of his elbows dig into his thighs as he holds his head in his hands. Mycroft glances down to where his mobile rests on his obscenely large desk, he swipes a finger across the screen.

"Two, sir?" Not missing a beat, his assistant opens the door. Sherlock twists in his seat at the sudden sound to find her face illuminated by the ever-present Blackberry.

"Please, Anthea." Mycroft smile and Sherlock stands abruptly.

"Just the one." His gaze locks with Mycroft’s as he smoothes out the creases in his coat. It’s is best attempt at appearing ‘defiant.’

"I know you don't understand, but John is," Mycroft allows for a pregnant pause, standing and staring to walk back around to settle in his chair. Of course, he’s back to his usual theatrics. "Essential." Sherlock begins to tug his leather gloves back on. "Thanks to your missteps, brother, he has become a much more…" Sherlock watches the wheels spinning in his brother’s brain. Carefully considering his words, Mycroft tilts his head to the right with an unnerving half smile. "Substantial man than I ever originally planned." The smug look seems at home on his face. "But as you know, Plans shift around. And I am nothing if not adaptable." He leans across the desk, reaching for his mobile before glancing up at Sherlock with a warning. "Within reason."

“I’ll try,” he says, striding over to the ceiling high doors.

“It may be less than romantic.” Mycroft voice breaks his stride. “But you know he is aware of who we are…you can speak candidly with him about Sarah.”

The door shuts softly behind Sherlock.

 

 

Three days later, Sherlock decides to finally talk to John. It is the man’s day off from the clinic and there is not time like the present when Mycroft is watching. As per the Plan, John leaves his flat at exactly 12:08 to fetch some milk from Tesco. The man has nothing planned for the day except for reruns of Doctor Who, Hollyoaks and toast, so no ripples or adjusting necessary. Timing is everything, after all.

“John.” Sherlock slips along beside him, switching up his gate to match the slower pace of John’s limping stride. John comes up short. Calm, which is more surprising than not, John turns to size up Sherlock. Lips stretched in a flat line, John scans over the pale face and messy hair of his caseworker.

Perhaps, Sherlock reasons, the seasonally cold temperature is detracting from the usual warmth John radiates.

“You know,” John starts and Sherlock takes a half step closer. A challenge. “I quite enjoyed your disappearing act the other night.”

“Would you like a coffee?” Sherlock barely allows the man to finish his comment. He hesitates for a moment before reaching out to grip the man’s elbow, steering him in the direction of the nearest Pret.

“Only cause I think it’s the closest to an apology I’ll get from you.”

 

 

Coffee in hand, Sherlock glances at John as they step out of the bustling Pret a Manger near John’s flat. He seems faintly flushed and anxious, presumably from Sherlock’s strange presence. Humans always did get a bit odd around caseworkers; at least that is what Mycroft had told him when he first started working with the Bureau. But all the others who worked in the field confirmed similar reactions from their cases. For some reason, the thought of John being uncomfortable around him makes Sherlock give the man a wider birth as they walk side by side. Oblivious, John steers them toward a small park, checking for a vacant bench.

“What did you mean the other day? When you said I was like a moth to a flame?” John asks, zeroing in on the perfect location for them to sit and chat.

“You enjoy danger.” Sherlock supplies, remembering a lifetime of data to back up the deduction. John looks away, smiling to himself. Sherlock unbuttons his over coat, fanning it out to welcome the cool fall air. “You always have.” The comment receives a sharp look from John, confusion briefly flitting across his face before settling around the corners of his eyes.

The scepticism is back.

Yes, Sherlock could work with that. Try to carefully lead him to the truth.

“Where did you go the other day anyways?” John stops walking, leaning on his cane in a way Sherlock assumes is meant to be intimidating. And Sherlock is unsure how to react; he has never been properly scrutinised before. It feels strange, as if John can maybe just begin to see the edges of his human guise. He thinks he could grow accustomed to the feeling, if need be.

“Business.” Sherlock’s tone is crisp and curt, discouraging further inquiry while knowing full well that John will take the bait and only press harder. A look of realisation begins to form on John’s face. He takes a half step closer, his voice dropping to a low whisper.

“You’re one of ‘them,’ aren’t you?”

“We need to be much closer to the river in order to have this conversation.”

 

 

A short taxi ride later and the two are queued up to board the London Eye.

“Sherlock?” John looks back and forth between the iconic tourist trap and Sherlock with a clearly puzzled expression.

“This is the safest place for us to talk. Near the water and no proper doors.” He explains, pointing to the capsules on the Eye. “I assume Lestrade filled you in on those details.” When John slowly shakes his head, Sherlock proceeds to list off all the salient information while they wait. “Water makes it difficult for caseworkers, or anyone else at the Bureau, to monitor individuals with any real accuracy.”

“Water? Why water?”

“You wouldn’t understand even if I tried to explain it.” A fleeting look of annoyance glares at Sherlock.

“What about the doors? What did you mean?”

Sherlock sighs, bemused by how ill informed the man was given how much more information he knew about the Bureau than most human beings would ever learn.

“It’s how we travel around London. For example, that door over there,” Sherlock points to a heavy backdoor of a café. “It leads straight to the toilets of Victoria Station. And that one will send you to the Pret near Marble Arch. But there was never a door made for the Eye, too conspicuous, too many ripples.”

“Cheaper than the tube, yeah?” Sherlock cannot hide the smile that pricks up the corners of his mouth when John laughs at his own joke.

“Yes. However, a Bureau issued hat is required in order to travel. Otherwise, the door is simply that.” Sherlock removes his black fedora to show the man. John gingerly fingers the brim, running his thumb along the inside. Perhaps he is searching for something in the lining to explain the phenomenon Sherlock is spouting off about. When he finds nothing out of the ordinary he slips the hat on.

“Not just a throwback, then?” John asks, tipping the brim to one side.

“There is a purpose for everything I do, John.” Sherlock snatches the hat back.

"So,” John tentatively begins as the last person steps into the capsule. The Eye starts its slow rotation and the other passengers mill about, snapping photos and taking in the London skyline. Of course, John refuses to sit, preferring to stand beside Sherlock as they stare out over the Thames. “I never got to ask Lestrade this properly, but,” he surreptitiously glances at Sherlock, apparently choosing his words carefully before just blurting out the question. He can feel John’s eyes examining his face, anticipating a reaction. “Are you lot angels?"

“John, please.” Indignant, Sherlock tugs at his scarf. He turns to give John a look of what will be read as mild annoyance, only lightly tinged with amusement.

“Fair,” he responds holding up a hand, a half smile twisting his words. “It’s just, Lestrade said he was supposed make sure I got where I needed to go…” John schools his face, staring pointedly at Big Ben. “Cause that sounds to me like a guardian ang—”

Sherlock whips his head round to level John with a sharp stare. It could only be a quick blur in his peripheral but the movement effectively cuts John off mid-sentence. He shuffles his feet, carefully moving away from Sherlock. A long silence stretches between them and perhaps this is not going as well as he hoped. Blunt and too the point would likely be the most successful way to obtain his goal. As a soldier, Sherlock deduced, John would respond well to a commanding tone and straightforward attitude.

He clears his throat but John is already talking.

“Where were you for this, then?” He still refuses to look at Sherlock, merely gesturing to his shoulder with a subtle tilt of the head. Sherlock has always wondered what the wound looked like now that it had had some time to heal properly. The images of tattered skin and grit and screams come unbidden and he’s sure John can hear the protest of leather gloves stretching across his knuckles.

"It made you stronger." The answer escapes his mouth before his mind can catch up. He knows Mycroft would not agree with his assessment. The wound had been a precaution intended to stunt John’s growth and send him back to the white washed world of London. Back to Sarah. Sherlock could only assume, though it was a very well educated guess, that the injury would be directly related to John’s potential medical breakthrough that Mycroft refused to confirm or deny.

Regardless, it was meant to cripple.

But John, oh John, he was resilient.

"Bitter is the word, Sherlock." John shifts his weight, seeming to remember his limp and leaning heavily on his cane.

“Only if you allow it.” He closes the gap between them, shoulders brushing. It startles John out of his reverie and his eyes slowly drag from Parliament to Sherlock’s placid face. John responds with an almost unperceivable nod. The warmth that couples the look causes Sherlock to completely unbutton his overcoat. He attempts to cover the gesture by distracting John with his words. “Don’t ask me why or how, but I’ve been told that you have a lot of potential, Doctor John Watson.”

“There’s a real ringing endorsement.” John huffs a laugh, causing his shoulder to bounce against Sherlock’s.

“Well, the information did come from my brother.” The disdain is so thick that Sherlock automatically reconsiders being so obvious and so human.

“Sibling rivalry?” John perks up. Yes, of course, a commonality, a long sought after point of intersection: troubled siblings. “Didn’t know angels could have rivalries.” He glances sidelong at Sherlock. His voice sounds suspiciously like a playful tease. “Or siblings.”

“He may be many things, but my brother is decidedly not an angel.” Sherlock sniffs in an approximation of ‘haughtiness’, brushing away his coat to stuff his hands in the pockets of his trousers. “Actually, despite the pain it causes me, he would be the most reliable source on the Plan.”

“What do you mean?”

“Mycroft is the Chairman of the Bureau. He has final say.”

“Your brother is God?” John furrows his brow sceptically, openly staring at Sherlock.

It’s the most ludicrous think anyone, human or not, has said to him in the entirety of his long life.

“What? No, John, h—” Sherlock cuts himself off and lets out a deep, resigned sigh. “If that is the only way your little brain can process the information, then fine.” Stepping closer, he reaches out to pat John on his uninjured shoulder. “Yes, Mycroft, my brother, is ‘god.’” He allows his hand to slip down John’s arm, lingering at the inner crook of his elbow before falling away.

Thankfully, no one on the Eye has yet to overhear their bizarre conversation.

“Well.” John looks well chuffed, drawing himself up to his full height. “I must be rather important to have you as my ‘caseworker.’”

“Troubled is the word, John.” Sherlock parrots back and watches the recognition flicker in John’s eyes. “Deeply troubled and deeply troubling.” A frown creases the skin around John’s mouth upon hearing his own cadence and intonation mimicked by Sherlock. “You’ve been meant to do something for a while now but you keep botching it up.”

“Sorry, what?”

“The woman, Sarah,” Sherlock gestures vaguely at John, fingers twisting in an unappealing manner. “You are meant to be with her.”

Mycroft was quite fond of the old romantic notions of fate and destiny. Love at first sight, meant to be, til death do us part—all Mycroft’s doing. Oh, he could be positively hateful when it came right down to it.

“Sarah Sawyer?” John’s face is the picture of disbelief. “No, no,” he repeats, shaking his head. “That can’t be right.”

Sherlock removes the black notebook from his inner breast pocket, snapping the elastic fastener as he thumbs it open. Flipping through the filler pages of notes on John’s behavioural patterns, he finds the current iteration of the Plan nestled safely in the back half of the journal. It is as up to date as Mycroft will allow, displaying the next few months of John’s life. He hands the notebook to John.

“That’s you.” Sherlock points to the pulsing green line running across the page, twisting and turning as it zigzags on crisp white paper. “That’s Sarah.” The orange line juts up from the bottom of the second page, heading straight toward the green line, intersecting halfway across the page. From there, it begins running parallel for the next five pages until the limited edition of his Plan runs out. “And I’ve been informed you continue like that until the end.” John silently stares at the elaborate image and Sherlock can almost see his gears admirably turning.

“What about free will?” John turns the page, watching the green and orange lines navigating the blueprint in unison. It’s the same for the next page, and the next, and just as Sherlock promised all the way until the end of his copy. He flips back to the first page of the Plan, staring at a future that is about to turn present.

“Man had his chance at free will. That era ended when the Bureau was formed. However.” Sherlock cocks his head, narrowing his eyes as he marvels at John. “I don’t think Mycroft accounted for you having such a wilful spirit.” Oblivious to the scrutiny, John continues staring at the journal, tracing his finger over the pulsing lines. Sherlock tries to imagine all the little thoughts zipping across synapses and firing off in John’s simple little human mind. “I need you to meet with her. Only once, if you like. Just to see how things progress.” He attempts to appeal to John’s inquisitive nature and his high moral character. “We can’t force love, Mycroft thinks it’s too complex, too nuanced for Adjustment. If it feels correct, great.” It sounds like a fair plan, one that a man like John surely cannot object to. One meeting is all they need to fall madly, deeply in love, according to the Plan. It should be no great hardship. “If it doesn’t happen…” He trails off, knowing the likelihood is less than 1% but still toeing the line due to John’s involvement in the arrangement and his current success rate when it comes to adhering to all things Plan related. “Well, we’ll have to address that impasse should we arrive at it.”

Sherlock has come to the illogical conclusion that Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle was actually theorized with Dr. John Watson in mind.

“Couldn’t hurt.” John shrugs and Sherlock approves of his rational thought process—so rare for average human beings. Just as he is about to hand the journal back, he tugs it just out of Sherlock’s reach. “But if this is a deal, I want something in return.” Sherlock’s hand hangs between them, paused in the middle of grasping for the journal. His mind whirls with all the possible trades a man like John would want to make with a being such as Sherlock. There are at least seven different theories convalescing when John finally places the journal in the open hand. His grip is firm, not yielding the ransom until Sherlock agrees to his demands. “I’ve never had dinner with an angel.”

A smile breaks out on Sherlock’s face and he finds that it is mirrored by the small one pulling up the corners of John’s mouth. It has been a long time since Sherlock was wrong. He allows the laugh bubbling up inside him to spill over. The sound rings genuine in his ears.

 

 

That weekend John Watson gets a pint with Sarah Sawyer.

 

 

Sunday night, when John comes home after the ‘date,’ Sherlock believes the human might be suffering from a mild cardiac episode.

“Bloody hell, Sherlock!” John starts gasping for air and clutching his chest the minute he pushes the door to his flat open to discover Sherlock sprawled on his couch, waiting for him in the dark. Braced against the doorframe, John scans the room for evidence of Sherlock’s break in.

Ridiculous.

“How—” He barely wheezes out.

“Are you going to see her again?” Sherlock cuts him off, slowly sitting up. Last time he checked, two minutes prior to John’s arrival, the Plan had been on course. But now, being able to physically see John, something feels off.

Wrong.

Botched.

Again.

“Wait!” He throws up a hand in John’s direction. “Don’t answer that.” Jumping up and crossing the room, he wraps his hand around the collar of John’s unbuttoned jacket. He starts tugging the man in the direction of the bathroom. “Come.”

“How long have you been sitting here…in the dark?” John limps along, one step behind Sherlock, with no protest to being manhandled inside his own flat.

“Since you left.” Sherlock tosses over his shoulder.

The content of the date was immaterial to Sherlock. He trusted John to follow through, thus there was no need to chaperone a grown man while trying to ‘fall in love’ with the ‘woman of his dreams.’ After all, there was nothing more Sherlock could do as John’s caseworker. Once the two met the rest was supposed to fall into place, per the Plan, and then they could go on with their little lives and stop bothering Sherlock with all their messy feelings and stifling warmth.

Kicking the door open with his foot, Sherlock hauls John into the bathroom. He pushes open the glass door to the shower stall and steps inside.

“What?” John stands there dumbly as Sherlock stands inside the shower.

“Get in.” Sherlock beckons John to join him, fully clothed and bewildered.

“Sorry, repeat that?”

“Water!” He says in place of a proper explanation. Reaching out, Sherlock grabs the front of John’s jumper, dragging him into the shower. The cane clatters to the floor behind him, useless. John is too stunned by the sudden action to block Sherlock from twisting the tap on full blast.

“Sherlock!” John recoils, his back hitting the titled wall. He nearly looses his balance. Sherlock darts forward to steady him, pale hands braced under his arms until he finds his footing. “This is my nice jumper.” John looks down at the woollen garment, soaked all the way through and hanging sadly off his shoulders. He pulls at it mournfully.

“Are you going to see Sarah again?”

“Sure, she’s great.” John squints up at Sherlock as the shower pelts him in the face, spitting out mouthfuls of water with every word. His hair is plastered too his skull and he has to keep on pushing it out of his eyes.

It’s less than convincing.

“Do not lie to me, John.” A hand curls around John’s chin, tipping his face up. John bats it away when water starts splashing in his eyes.

Sherlock already knows a meeting with Mycroft is unavoidable.

“She’s sweet,” John starts, wiping at the water in his eyes and Sherlock can almost taste the bitter black tea Mycroft prefers during his more ‘intensive’ meetings. “But, it doesn’t feel right.” They’ll have a grand row for sure. “Maybe we would have worked before, but I’ve changed too much since uni.” John squints up at Sherlock again, hair a mess and jumper soaked, the soles of his dress shoes squeaking.

“Precisely the problem.” Sherlock slumps against the cold glass of the shower as the water continues to run over them both, seeping into the heavy material of his overcoat. He runs a hands through his drenched hair, slicking it back in a tangled mess.

“Can I still take you to dinner?”

 

 

Anthea, who now wore a nametag reading Charlotte, waits for Sherlock as he steps across the threshold, into the third floor hallway of the Bureau. There is no point in protesting. She escorts him through the familiar labyrinth of corridors, lifts and two separate spiral stairs to the heavy, full-length doors of Mycroft’s office.

Just as he suspected, a cup of bitter tea is already steeping on the edge of his brother’s unnecessarily large desk.

“I hear you have a story for me.” Mycroft says in place of a proper greeting. He motions for Sherlock to take up his usual seat as he slips a second mobile into his topmost drawer. A thin smile distorts his perpetually calm countenance. He remains seated, already beginning the tiresome power plays. Sherlock does not give his brother the satisfaction of responding to the obvious invitation to divulge the most recent details of his ‘unique’ case. Instead, he refuses to either speak or sit. He elects to stand just to the right of the proffered chair, leaning against its high back. Slowly, he pointedly directs all his attention to peeling off his leather gloves. “I must say.” A change in tactics. Obvious. “The boy has some strange attachment to you.”

If Sherlock looks up just a fraction too quickly, Mycroft will know. He already knows each and every thoughts filling Mycroft’s brain. Sherlock steadies himself, eyes sliding along the carpet, up the front of the desk before settling on the patch of skin between Mycroft’s eyes.

“I cannot account for his ‘feelings,’ Mycroft.” Cool and detached, his usual tenor. He wraps himself in the familiar sound and waits for the response. At first, it’s nothing but the slight raising of an eyebrow.

“And neither can you correct them.” The frown is light, barely creasing the skin about his mouth with disappointment and pity intermingling. “No matter,” he says, brushing the troubled expression away with a flick of the wrist. He opens the topmost file on his desk. “I’m removing you from his case. Jim will be taking over tonight.” Mycroft begins scratching away with a silver fountain pen.

Red ink.

“Moriarty?” Sherlock is no longer nonchalant, back rigid and straight as he stands.

“I know you disapprove of his methods but it’s the results that are crucial this late in the game.” Mycroft barely glances up from where he is finalising the paperwork, making the transference of cases official.

“Have you ever considered there may be a flaw in the Plan?” It has been a long time since Sherlock could be bothered to have a proper go at his brother. But John Watson seems as good a cause as any, perhaps the best one, if he is being honest with himself. After all, John’s case is the first one Sherlock has witnessed that legitimately calls the Plan in to question. As well as Mycroft's authority.

Sherlock steps forward slowly, making his best attempt at looming over the desk. A slight tremor causes Mycroft to sputter a few drops of red ink across the crisp white document.

“My Plan is infallible,” he responds, his voice several degrees calmer than his penmanship suggests. “And if there is a flaw it is the direct result of your mistakes.” The pen hits the desk with a quiet clunk. Mycroft glares up at Sherlock, allowing the silence to fill the space between them. “Do not forget who Mummy left in charge, dear brother.”

A low blow and Sherlock knows he has pushed too hard, too quickly. There is no reasoning with Mycroft, especially when he gets this flustered. It is best to leave the minute 'Mummy' is brought into the debate. Reason failing, Sherlock’s priorities immediately shift.

John must be protected and only Mycroft knows the full roster of despicable things Moriarty has engaged in while crusading on behalf of the Plan.

“Of course,” he nods, stepping back and turning toward the door. Behind him, the scratching resumes.

“Oh, and Sherlock,” Mycroft’s voice freezes him to the spot. “It’s best to stay away. I trust you do not want Dr. Watson to be reset.” The pen continues etching away John’s future, his chances for survival dwindling with every stroke.

 

 

By the time Sherlock reaches John’s clinic it’s Monday morning and the heavy rain promised for the weekend has finally reached London proper. Just this once, something beyond his control seems to actually be cooperating with his endgame.

Sherlock smiles to himself as he slips past the waiting room; it will be much harder for Moriarty to find them with torrents of water falling all around the city, distorting data and skewing the Bureau’s trackers. While Sherlock is sure Mycroft will know the instant he crosses the threshold of John’s office, the weather may give them the perfect head start. At least granting them enough time to find someplace where they can devise a more coherent, long-term plan—one that goes beyond Sherlock’s initial thought to simply protect John’s person from immediate contact with Moriarty.

When Sherlock spots the doctor’s office he pauses, standing silently in the open doorway, watching—old habits, and all that. John sits at his desk, lightly humming to himself as he fills out paperwork between patients. There is something delicate about the carefree tilt of his head that Sherlock has never seen during his time as John’s caseworker. It’s a different kind of happiness, thick and tangible and unlike anything Sherlock has felt radiating off of a human being. Usually when things go according to plan there is a sense of joy or ‘love’ that expands outward from the individual but that sensation pales in comparison.

It’s almost as if Sherlock can actually feel John’s happiness, all the way down to the marrow of his bones. Almost as if the sensation is his own.

A lighting strike lights up the office for a split second and John glances out the window at the downpour. John spots Sherlock’s reflection in the glass.

“Sherlock.” He snaps back when John jumps out of his chair, rising to greet him. The ridiculously unnecessary cane remains propped against the side of the desk, forgotten for now. A smile grows on John’s face, and it’s so very warm and inviting in a way Sherlock cannot quantify but would like to explore further, when time permits. “What are you doing here?” There is an undercurrent of exhilaration threading through his voice, anticipating excitement and adventure with every heartbeat. He is practically vibrating with it, a faint flush spreading up to the tips of his ears as he shuffles around his small desk. Leaning in close enough that Sherlock can smell John’s soap, he murmurs something along the lines of, “We’re not getting dinner until seven,” while pointing distractedly at his watch. Sherlock sees that the man’s eyes are stuck staring his mouth.

“John.” He wraps his fingers around the bones of John’s wrist, demanding his full attention. “We need to leave. Now.”

“What?” John does not pull away, though his brow furrows in confusion.

“No questions.” Sherlock ushers John out of his office, down the hallway and out of the clinic. A few patients stare as their doctor is whisked away by strange man in a dark coat and fedora.

John’s cane is completely forgotten, as is his limp.

Sherlock starts springing up the stairs and is thankful when John silently hustles to keep up with the long strides, not a single question holding them back. He trusts Sherlock. They come to an abrupt stop on the fourth floor, skidding to a halt in front of a janitorial cupboard. A door at the opposite end of the corridor bangs open and a sharp, three-piece suit steps out.

He’s taken too long.

“Moriarty,” Sherlock breaths, eyes wide as he pulls open the cupboard door to reveal the Mile End tube station.

“Johnny boy!” Moriarty calls out, arms flung wide as if waiting for an embrace. John loses his balance, falling through the doorway onto the tube platform as he trips over a sudden wrinkle in the carpeted hallway. Four other men come barging out of the far off doorway, each defensively flanking Moriarty. Sherlock quickly follows John, slamming the door behind him before he swoops down to help the man up.

 

 

Together, Sherlock and John zigzag across half of London.

Moriarty and his men mirror their every move, only a door or two behind them at all times. Sherlock’s grip is tight, and he refuses to let go of John’s hand as they navigate the intricate system of doorways and masses of Londoners and tourists alike. Thankfully, but not surprisingly, it appears that John has made a full recovery from both his psychosomatic limp and the very real tumble he took courtesy of his new caseworker’s more ‘aggressive’ tactics. As they dash down yet another strange alleyway in Camden, Sherlock can feel the anxiety and confusion pulsing through John, though he remains quiet. But underneath it all is the familiar warmth, extending out from each point of contact between them. It curls up Sherlock’s arm, coiling unbidden in his empty chest.

After a series of doors that lead them above and below the streets of Soho, they manage to outmanoeuvre Moriarty and his men when they reach the bustling centre of Trafalgar Square. It’s easy for the pair to slip into the crowd of black umbrellas and locate a cluster of doors that will help further scramble the trace on John.

Now is the safest time to make a break for the London Eye. Sherlock knows he needs a refuge, and the thirty-minute trip around the wheel will be just enough time to clear his head and come up with a real stratagem.

Luckily, the rain and misty Thames have driven away many of the tourists and they make it just in time to be sent up in a capsule with only a handful of other people.

 

 

“Sherlock,” John wheezes, collapsing on the massive bench in the centre of the capsule. Once again his clothing, this time a cardigan and button down, are soaked through and clinging to his chest. Slumping forward, he presses his elbows to his knees before running his hands through drenched hair. The strands stick up at odd angles as he attempts to wring the water from them. A small puddle is beginning to form on the floor around John. “Who is that man?” He asks, still getting is breath back while he flings an arm out in the vague direction of where they have just eluded capture.

“Moriarty.” Sherlock remains standing, walking over to look down at the base of the Eye. From the end of the short queue, Moriarty stares back with gleaming black eyes and a wicked grin splitting his face. “Your new caseworker.”

“What? But, you—?”

“You’ve been reassigned.” He briefly glances back at John to check his reaction before watching as two of the men with Moriarty disappear into a nearby café. Quickly, his eyes snap back to Moriarty’s face but it remains carefully composed and completely unreadable. There is nothing there but dead eyes and a cold smile that will never yield any concrete conclusions or even the inklings of them.

“Because of this thing with Sarah?” John snaps back as he starts pulling distractedly at the fabric of his shirt, peeling it off his chilled skin. Sherlock sighs, moving away from the massive window to stand before John. At this juncture, it may just be a bit more important to be fully engaged in this particular conversation.

“The relationship is integral to Mycroft’s Plan.” As soon as the belittling tone slips from his mouth Sherlock realises it is a mistake.

“The ‘Plan’ is wrong then, isn’t it,” John stands, misdirecting his aggression and physically challenging Sherlock despite the few curious people who turn their way when they see the sudden movement. A finger prods Sherlock in the chest, emphatically punctuating his words with little jabs against his sternum as his voice drops to a harsh whisper. “Cause I don’t bloody well fancy her, I fan—” John cuts himself off before he says something he may regret. Sherlock is sure the sensation of overheating is entirely due to the sprinting. Though he knows that his body has never responded so dramatically to such a human thing as ‘physical exertion’ in the past.

Curious.

Still, he refuses to give into the urge to remove his sweltering scarf and waterlogged coat, attempting to acclimate to the new sensation of white-hot heat prickling along his neck and spine. But the heat suddenly spikes when Sherlock’s mind fills in the logical blanks in John’s aborted sentence.

“Oh.”

Sherlock’s expression of realisation might have been comical in a different setting but instead it has the power to send John crumpling back onto the wet bench. He misses the bright flush tinting John’s cheeks, though more waves of warmth crash against his skin and he has to turn away. Mind spinning, eyes unfocused as they flit over the London skyline, everything starts falling into place.

John found him attractive, that much he knew. Why else would the man have come up to him at the pub instead of following the Plan and chatting up Sarah? Other than his irrational need to engage in banal conversation with dodgy looking men in shadowy pub booths. Sherlock concludes that it was a combination of both factors. But the probability that any real kind of an emotion would be attached to his initial response to visual stimuli was less than 2%. As for the dinner proposal from John, Sherlock had simply assumed it was a by-product of the man’s curiosity and thirst for more exciting liaisons with his ‘guardian angel.’

But it was supposed to be a date.

John wanted to date Sherlock.

Not Sarah, not anyone else.

Sherlock was the reason John’s path had been completely derailed—starting all the way back in the university library. John had remembered him that night in the pub, whether it was subconsciously or not could be up for debate, but something drew him to Sherlock. The odd man who dropped his book on bees, who cushioned his fall on the tube, who silently followed him to war, watched him from afar and knew how he took his tea and exactly when he woke up in a cold sweat with dreams of Afghanistan twisting his mind.

“Of course.”

And Mycroft would never have factored Sherlock into the Plan.

Caseworkers were never taken into consideration. They were meant for the shadows and smoke, the silent observers who insured that everything stayed on Plan. Each one was instructed to pull the invisible strings according to Mycroft’s dictations. Even when they were employed for course correction it was subtle, easily forgotten manipulations. And people never noticed, never even thought to look beyond the familiar.

It was human nature to stick to the Plan, to form patterns, habits, and daily routines. To normalise everything.

But once again, according to the Plan, according to Mycroft, John is ‘flawed.’ He is an anachronism—a man from the Dark Ages of free will.

“But why?” Sherlock rounds on John.

“What do you mean, why?” John stares back, baffled, unable to make the mental leaps to keep up with Sherlock’s private deductions. He glances anxiously around the capsule, noting the strange stares they receive from a couple who quickly look away when John meets their eyes.

“Why are you like this? Why do you resist? Why do you, out of the entire human race, exhibit free will?” Sherlock demands, crouching down to look John in the eye, searching his face for an answer. All he finds is confusion and embarrassment and something that cannot be named though he has seen it before, but only from a distance. “Why would you ever develop ‘feelings’ for me?” And suddenly he is reaching out to graze his fingertips along the ridge of John’s knuckles. Sherlock has never felt an automatic response take over his body; he concludes that it is vaguely unsettling and a bit bothersome. The man’s fingers, gripping the damp material of his slacks so that they turn white with the pressure, momentarily relax under the contact before pulling away.

"Sherlock, I don’t—” John heaves a sigh, burying his face in his hands. Sherlock itches to pry the hands away. Instead, he stands and takes a step back to reassess the man before him. John looks up when he hears the movement. Sherlock only sees an analytical eye staring back at him. He dares to think that John is actually attempting to answer his question in a succinct and logical manner by evaluating the evidence before him and the messy emotion swirling inside. After a long pause, he seems to find a satisfactory answer. “You’re different.”

“That’s because I’m not human, John.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“That’s completely irrational.” John simply stares back and Sherlock wonders how it is possible that such a look of clear annoyance can still be laced with, now obvious, affection. Sherlock narrows his eyes. “Fascinating.” John fidgets under Sherlock’s intense gaze.

“So are you going to tell me why we are running from this ‘Moriarty’, or am I meant to guess?” John asks, agitated and most likely hoping to redirect Sherlock’s attention to the more pressing issue rather than dissecting him with his bright eyes.

They’ve reached the top of the Eye’s rotation, only fifteen more minutes left. The ploy works and Sherlock comes back to the reality of their current situation, compartmentalizing the overflowing warmth that pours out from John in a steady stream. There seems to be no stopping it now, so Sherlock decides the best course of action is to once again ignore it until John is safe.

“Moriarty will do anything in order to adhere to the Plan.” Sherlock explains as he settles on the bench. “He will hurt you, John.” He holds John’s gaze for a moment, remembering the man's fall earlier. It barely counted, just a mere tease on Moriarty’s behalf, but one that implied much worse was to follow if John did not comply. “Or, he will reset you. Erase who you are, who you have become and sculpt a nice, compliant John Watson out of your newly marshmallowed brain.” Sherlock rises again, moving to check Moriarty’s position. “I will not allow him to do either,” he says quietly to himself.

Moriarty has not moved, though his men have returned.

“So you have a plan, yeah?” John follows him, leaning against the topmost metal railing running around the interior of the capsule.

Sherlock is beginning to come to terms with the fact that the impossible is the only thing that can spare John. Hopefully, Mycroft has calmed down since their last chat, though Sherlock is sure his act of disobedience did little to quell his brother’s anger.

“We’re going to have to try and reason with Mycroft.”

Of course he has heard of alternations in the Plan centuries ago, but it was mostly murmurings—many surrounding Moriarty’s misconducts and the rather untimely beheading of a queen. Regardless of the validity of such claims, Sherlock knows his brother’s potential as well as his weaknesses—he has just never needed to play upon them before.

“Bringing you along might soften his resolve." His eyes rake over John's features, his easy smile, soft eyes and bedraggled clothes. Surely, Sherlock thinks, Mycroft could not refuse John Watson. After all, despite finding it difficult to admit, Sherlock himself was struggling to do so on a minute-by-minute basis. "He loves humans, obviously.”

Though it has been a long time since Mycroft interacted with men, the last time being a brief conversation with a Macedonian prince who’s father had recently been assassinated—something about admiring the Sacred Band of Thebes. And Sherlock can still remember the way Mycroft’s eyes lit up when he saw the grandeur of that same boy in his rather public declaration of love, extending his own title and name to his dearest friend. It was the stuff of epic poetry and it was beyond enchanting. Mycroft would have gone to the ends of the world to please that human. But he had been so young then; back when free will still reigned.

“And theatrics. He revels in dramatic posturing.” The grand gesture, bringing John Watson to look Mycroft straight in the eye and plead his case—it has the potential to drag out a change in heart. And Sherlock knew his brother's desire for a human heart, demonstrating compassion, when it served his purpose, allowed him to indulge in the lurid fantasy.

The only challenge would be to convince Mycroft that it was indeed in his best interest to allow John to carve his own path.

“Oh, good. Sounds simple enough.” John rolls his eyes, turning away from Sherlock to pace anxiously behind him. “One problem, Sherlock,” he says, prodding him in the shoulder blade, standing on his opposite side now. His hand slips to the small of Sherlock’s back as he points to the circle of suits plotting their demise. “As you’ve probably noticed there are just a few—”

“Yes, John. Shhhh!” Sherlock snaps his hand closed in John’s direction as he stares intently down at the group of men crowding the base of the Eye.

There are too few to be conspicuous but just enough to pose a challenge for Sherlock and John to handle alone. He counts five in total, including Moriarty. But two are quite large and surly looking; they will be solid but slow. The closest operational door is a good 200 meters away. They will need to slip through the men and make a dash for the door. Perhaps Sherlock can incapacity one or two of the caseworkers, that is if he is quick enough, as a tactical diversion. Then hopefully his intimate and superior knowledge of the Bureau’s layout will give them the advantage. Once they reach Mycroft, Moriarty and his men have no jurisdiction.

“Sherlock?”

They are still two minutes from arriving back at the platform.

“We need to run.” Sherlock reaches for John’s hand, his long fingers curling around the man’s palm.

“Brilliant.”

 

The rain pelts them in the face as they start weaving though the front of the small crowd at the base of the Eye. People continue shuffling about around them completely unaware, huddled under umbrellas and rain slickers. It’s a near torrential downpour and, when soaked to the bone, even a caseworker as old and skilled as Moriarty has no real strength beyond the physical limits of his body. No tricks, no moving carpets or lightning fast reflexives, he might as well be human.

Luckily, Sherlock thinks morosely, Moriarty has the two brutes and two sprinters as back up.

The group of caseworkers have spread out to encircle the perimeter of the throng, spaced just far enough apart to prevent either Sherlock or John from slipping through without some kind of confrontation. They will have to incapacitate at least one of the caseworkers.

Sherlock pulls John to the right, in the direction of the closest door he spotted earlier. It lies just beyond one of the slow, hulking caseworkers. He calculates a swift blow to the trachea will momentarily cut off air supply and stun the assailant just long enough to make a break away. The man is watching them intently but remains immobile, waiting for them to leave the relative safety of the mass of tourist. Sherlock starts to step in his direction, shouldering past a young couple and tugging John behind him.

Of course, John seems to have a completely different, and inexorably more dangerous idea. Forever the brave soldier, Dr. Watson, wanting to face his biggest challenger directly.

Instead of veering right, John strains against Sherlock’s grip, continuing to press straight toward Moriarty. With a wicked grin, Moriarty immediately realises their sudden shift in trajectory. He starts shoving his way into the crowd, regardless of the millions of unintended consequences the disruption will have on each life he touches. It will be hard for Mycroft to overlook such an infraction, though he most likely will claim it was for the ‘greater good.’

“John.” Sherlock tries to wrench the man back on the safer course but his mind is resolutely made up. They stop; allowing Moriarty to push in and Sherlock suddenly understands the tactic. Drawing him in, amongst the crowd and beneath the spotty canopy of umbrellas will cause the others to lose sight of their leader, confusion, uncertainty and thus poor judgement. He can feel John tense, it rattles through his entire being.

“My dear Doctor.” Moriarty sneers, pushing a man out of his path and closing the distance.

John jolts forward, much faster than Sherlock has ever seen him move before. And clearly much faster than Moriarty ever expected.

So when John lands a solid punch square on the bridge of Moriarty’s nose, Sherlock is shocked. Almost as shocked as Moriarty, though nowhere near as absurd. Bone and cartilage crunch beneath the man’s fist, loud and sickening—broken. Definitely broken. Blood begins pouring down Moriarty’s front, his sharp suit ruined.

Sherlock stands stock still as he watches Moriarty falter, clutching his broken nose and groaning in pain. It’s not until John grabs his wrist and starts running that Sherlock actually realises the gravity of what has transpired. The crowd parts easily for John, scurrying away from the violent ‘attacker’ and effectively blocking the other caseworkers in their pandemonium. They try and shove through but they are too late, instead they rush to help Moriarty.

“John!” Sherlock hears something like pride in his own voice.

“Which way?” John yells over his shoulder, voice muffled by the rain.

“Any door will do.”

John pulls them in the direction of the closest door. When they reach it, Sherlock throws himself against it, twisting the knob counter clockwise and stumbling inside. John is close behind, flinging the door shut.

“Here,” Sherlock calls, rushing to the side of one of the massive hat cubbies that lines the walls of the Bureau’s foyer. Slamming their combined body weight against the shelves, they send it tumbling over in front of the door, just as the knob starts to jingle. Hats spill everywhere on the marble floor.

Moriarty will have to find another way in.

“That.” Sherlock swallows thickly, smoothing back his wet hair. “That was good, John.” A weak smile flits across his lips only seconds before flattening into a thin line, brows furrowed. He steps right up to John, prodding him in the chest. “But never do anything like that again.” Sherlock regains control, clasping John’s hand in his own. He can feel blood smear against his palm and he is not sure if it belongs to Moriarty or if the skin of John’s knuckles split open on impact. For a brief moment, Sherlock’s step falters at the thought of John being injured. He quickly dispels the notions and presses on, leading them through the building.

There are at least six-seven floors between their current location, the main foyer of the Bureau, and Mycroft’s office at the top of the building. But, much like the Bureau’s version of London, the building itself is a maze of hallways and staircases all interconnected by particular doors. The trick is remembering which one will take you exactly where you need to be. And, due to Mycroft’s position as Chairman, there are only three doors in the entire Bureau that lead to the top floor. Beyond that, only one set leads directly into his office. Sherlock just hopes that whatever doorway Moriarty stumbles upon near the Eye does not inadvertently allow him the advantage.

And of course Sherlock cannot overlook the thousands of caseworkers bustling about. It will not take long for them to realise that something is amiss. But they are not a threat—only Moriarty and his crew have the clearance level to touch the Chairman’s brother.

 

 

With three doors, one staircase and several disgruntled caseworkers behind them, Sherlock and John run into two of Moriarty’s henchmen stumbling out of the women’s toilet on the forty-fourth floor. John swears and Sherlock has to immediately course correct, ducking into the nearest empty conference room.

They lose ground, winding up back on the twenty-second floor. When they reach the fiftieth floor the pair of caseworkers, now joined by the other two hulking figures, reappear just as Sherlock throws open the only door leading to the topmost level of the Bureau. Turning down a long corridor they find that the only doors available are those at the opposite end of the hallway. Conveniently, they happen to belong to Mycroft’s office. They are so close. The telltale clatter of several pairs of shoes beating against ornate marble grows louder. Sherlock glances over his shoulder and the group of caseworkers are only a few steps behind.

John stops running and Sherlock whips around to find their path blocked.

“Doctor Watson,” Moriarty calls, the sound reverberates loudly in the massive space. They are surrounded. “What a delightful game of cat and mouse,” his voice is nasally and distorted as he pinches the bridge of his nose. The flesh is stained a light red with blood from where John broke it. “But it’s getting a bit dull.” He pulls a face, exaggerated disgust, and lets the hand fall away. “I do have a job to do after all.” Sherlock moves to block John from view; his grip on the man’s wrist is almost painful. Moriarty continues stalking toward them. “You know, deadlines.” The word rolls off his tongue, the sound curved by the sick smile twisting his lips.

“Sherlock!” John shouts as he is wrenched away by two of the caseworkers. Sherlock’s immediate reaction is to scramble after him, but he knows it would be futile so he suppresses the urge. He bites the inside of his cheek, struggling to maintain his composure as he watches John’s arms being twisted behind his back—one thick fingered hand digging into the old bullet wound.

“This could have all been avoided if you had not gotten in my way,” Moriarty chides him, patting Sherlock on the shoulder. It starts gentle but quickly descends into solid thumps against his clavicle. “Now the good doctor will have to be reset.” He snaps his fingers and one of the lackeys twists his hand in the damp locks at the crown of John’s head.

“No.” The sound escapes unchecked.

Oh, and Sherlock suddenly understands. He _wants_.

He’s never _wanted_ anything. Never like this, never felt that most basic human need, a burning, base craving for contact.

He _wants_ to kiss John. Needs to kiss him.

How human.

Sherlock darts forward, his blunt fingertips pressing into John’s skin as he tilts his face up. Their lips collide, teeth awkwardly clicking against each other on impact. It’s a bruiser of a kiss and everything else seems to go silent. The sound of Moriarty laughing and doors gliding open fade into the background as he finally surrenders to the latticework of heat crisscrossing his body. It’s like a dull ache burning just beneath the surface of his skin, blossoming over every inch of his body and rising ever higher. And John, oh, John, he is kissing him back. At least it feels like he is, and rather enthusiastically at that. But then again, Sherlock has never kissed anyone before so he may be misreading the contact. Though he is sure that when John tilts his head and the whisper of a tongue grazes along his lower lip, it can be considered conclusive evidence that yes, indeed, John is kissing him back.

“You always have been one for the overly dramatic gestures, little brother.” Mycroft says from somewhere in the distance. The sound of his brother’s voice is enough to kill any desire thrumming through his suddenly human-feeling body.

“Mycroft!” Sherlock gasps, whirling around to find his brother leaning on his favourite umbrella. Once he spots Mycroft’s somewhat amused expression he turns back to focus on a rather dazed John. “Mycroft, you have to—” He continues frantically, running his hands over John’s shoulders and face.

“Why don’t we take this whole little affair into my office.” Mycroft remains calm, motioning for the group to enter.

 

 

“He has already demonstrated that he is a rather exceptional human,” Sherlock argues, pacing in front of where Mycroft sits at his desk. John has been shoved into an overstuffed leather armchair, the one usually reserved for Sherlock whenever he chooses to grace Mycroft with his presence. It seemed appropriate. Moriarty leans luxuriously against the back of the chair, carding his hand through John’s damp hair. The four caseworkers stand guard around Moriarty, poised to restrain Sherlock at any moment should he try another daring escape.

“I believe your judgement may be a bit clouded.” Mycroft cuts in, needling Sherlock with a cool smile as he leans back to cross his legs.

“Regardless,” Sherlock snaps back. “You know there is no guarantee that even if you do reset him, he will follow the original Plan.” He pauses to look at John, caught halfway between his brother and the human. John’s eyes are bright and alert, trying to follow Sherlock’s train of thought to its logical conclusion. “We can’t replicate the exact memories or feelings he has accrued. There are things that the Bureau simply cannot imitate.” A series of shared memories stream through Sherlock’s mind and he can only begin to guess what kinds of foreign ‘emotions’ were swirling around in John’s head. All he felt was warmth or the distinct lack there of, nothing concrete enough to be labelled as fear or need or inspiration. He has to look away from the man’s hopeful face; eyes focusing on the wet stain blossoming on Mycroft’s lush carpet just beneath John’s feet. His mind is racing. “Perhaps the new John will love Sarah, yes, but his ingenuity, that spirit that drives him toward danger and adventure, may be permanently lost. And your Plan will still be ruined along with John.” There is a strange twinge that causes a hitch in his step as he turns to face Mycroft full on. Something has sparked to life inside his chest, his long fingers pressed against the desk as he leans in close. “You know as well as I do there is no accounting for the damage done when a mind is reset.”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft tone is sharp, a clear warning for Sherlock to back off the topic and allow his brother time to consider his reasoning and weigh his rather limited options. Two pairs of feet whisper against the carpet, stepping forward to flank Sherlock. He ignores the muffled warning from John.

“Let this one have his free will.” He is pushing too far, eyes wild and pale skin taking on an uncharacteristic flush. “You will not regret it.”

“I’m sorry, brother.” The apology is an honest one, regret and sorrow rimming the edges of Mycroft’s eyes despite his unyielding tenor. “I would like to hear from John now.” With a slight inclination of Mycroft’s head, two of Moriarty’s caseworkers seize Sherlock.

“Mycroft!”

“Alone.” Mycroft motions for them to kindly remove Sherlock from the office.

“No!” John tries to jump out of the chair but only makes it halfway before Moriarty yanks him back down. Letting out a groan of pain, he twists away from the grip that restrains him. “What are you going to do to him?” He demands, brow furrowed and staring up at Mycroft.

“I owe you no explanation.”

“He’s my caseworker. I deserve to know,” John challenges and that warm ache low in the pit of Sherlock’s stomach flares up. “I’m the reason he’s in this mess.”

“Yes, I suppose you are…” Mycroft considers the sentiment for a moment before unfolding his legs and standing. He runs a finger along the perimeter of his desk as he walks around it. Lips pressed in a flat line, Sherlock braces himself despite already knowing exactly what will come next. “Sherlock will be striped of his status as a caseworker. All of his field work privileges will be revoked and he will then have to serve multiple century sentences working in the Bureau’s Basement archives.” Leaning against the front of his desk, arms crossed, Mycroft settles to stand opposite John. “It’s something akin to your high security prisons. He’ll still contribute to society but in a highly controlled environment.”

Sherlock ignores the slight twinge of fear that chases away the warmth curling in his chest, instead focusing on his brother’s keen eyes. Mycroft examines John’s every reaction as if he is waiting for some abstract tell from the human. There are very high expectations lurking behind those deceptively calm eyes. Sherlock can only hope that John Watson will meet whatever illogical criteria Mycroft has created for his fastidiously distributed compassion.

Eyes slowly trailing from Mycroft’s face, John looks to Sherlock. He stays quiet for a moment, licking his lower lip and pulling at the cuffs of his cardigan. John looks so small in the opulent chair, dwarfed by the menacing Moriarty who continues to loom above him. Sherlock feels the sudden urge to touch him, put his arms around the human and lie through his teeth when he promises to solve all of life’s little problems.

“Y-you,” John just barely stumbles over the word as he turns back to Mycroft. He pauses to collect himself and Sherlock can already tell John is about to do something incredibly stupid and obviously gallant. “If it’s the only way…” The hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. John’s fingers bunch in the damp fabric of his trousers, split knuckles fading to white. “You can reset me.”

“John.” Sherlock struggles against the tight grip on his biceps, nearly overpowering one of the caseworkers.

Moriarty’s hand falls away from his head, completely shocked.

“I don’t know why,” John barrels on, refusing to look at Sherlock, “but I can’t seem to follow your Plan. I’ve tried, honest.” The laugh catches in his throats as he shrugs his shoulders helplessly. “But I think I’d rather not know, be a different person, than try and play along—because I already know I can’t do that anymore.” His human impulses betray the practiced composure filling his voice, gaze flicking over to check on Sherlock. “Just, just don’t hurt Sherlock.”

“I’ll be fine.”

For the first time in almost fourteen centuries, Sherlock tells a bad lie and John knows instantly.

“You would do that to protect your casework, Dr. Watson?” Mycroft asks incredulous, but Sherlock thinks he hears an undercurrent of exhilaration. There is a glimmer of hope when Sherlock sees a genuine look of surprise flit across his brother’s face. Perhaps he is starting to understand. Intriguing. “Why?” A strange little smile twists up the corners of his mouth.

It seems that John can surprise even the Chairman.

“I thought that bit was obvious.”

Mycroft’s smile is slow to rise but it manages to crinkle the skin at the corners of his eyes and Sherlock realises it’s been nearly seven centuries since he has seen that particular expression on his brother’s face.

“Well then.” Mycroft’s entire demeanour changes, perking up as he clasps his hands together. He pushes off of the desk, crossing the large room to personally remove the two pairs of hands restraining his brother. “Perhaps there is one other possibility to solve our little dilemma, brother.”

For once Sherlock honestly has not a single inkling as to what his brother is planning.

While Mycroft occupies himself with escorting the caseworkers from his office, Sherlock rushes to John’s side. His long fingers wrap around Moriarty’s wrist, thumb digging into tendons and veins as he pries him off John.

“Catch you later,” Moriarty snarls, yanking his hand away. Sherlock barely spares him a proper glare.

“Moriarty,” Mycroft calls, beckoning the caseworker with a crook of his finger.

“That was bloody stupid.” Sherlock rounds on John who now stands beside him, anxiously combing his hand through his own dishevelled hair. His hand cups the side of the man’s face as he leans down. “So stupid,” he murmurs against John’s lips. John presses his hands against the length of firm collarbones beneath wool and cotton, just feeling the solid weight of Sherlock so close.

After dismissing a seriously put out Moriarty in favour of managing the situation without his further heavy-handed assistance, Mycroft clears his throat. John pulls away immediately but Sherlock follows his movements, prolonging the kiss. When Mycroft upgrades to a loud cough, Sherlock finally registers the sound, supplanting the loss of contact between them by taking John’s hand.

“Follow me.” With an amused smile that Sherlock really does not care for in the slightest, Mycroft leads them into a large record room connected to his primary office. Once they pass through the small doorway, he instructs them to wait while he disappears into the ceiling high stacks. Sherlock spreads his fingers, threading them through John’s as he tugs him closer. There are about five different scenarios playing in his mind, ranging from best case to the absolute worse. Mycroft reappears a few moments later with a small tube of crisp white paper. “Now,” he says, placing the paper on an ornate glass display case, the one at the very heart of the room showcasing Mummy’s Original Plan, and carefully unrolling it. “Keep in mind, this is just a draft.”

A bright purple line springs from nowhere in the middle of the roughly sketched out Plan. Sherlock estimates that the new line starts at 7:28 the following morning. It is almost as if the human was suddenly born mid-thought. From its very introduction it begins running parallel to John’s pulsing green lifeline.

That is the solution.

Mycroft has a different companion in mind. Someone better suited to the reality of Doctor John Watson.

But how could it be a new life? An infant, perhaps? Sherlock cannot make sense of the anomaly in the Plan spooling out on the page.

“Who is this?” Sherlock traces the trajectory of the purple line all the way to the edge of the Plan. He already knows it will continue far beyond the six-month block of time currently drawn up on the blueprint before him. A lifetime partner to the green streak darting around London.

“You.”

“Human?”

“Yes,” Mycroft replies with a beaming smile spreading across his features. He smoothes his hand over the pristine paper, clearly proud of his ingenious solution. Or, had it been his Plan all along? Sherlock quickly dismisses the notion—too many variables to account for, even for a mind like his brother’s. “I told you I was adaptable within reason.” Mycroft takes a step closer to his brother, reaching out to touch his elbow gingerly. “You becoming human to be with John is well within what I would consider ‘reasonable.’”

“Sherlock,” John squeezes his hand, the pad of his thumb tracing the topography of Sherlock’s knuckles.

“Has this ever happened before?”

“No.” Mycroft dismisses the gravity of that answer with the flick of a wrist. He circles around the pair to stand on the other side of the display case. “It’ll be hard, especially for you, to adjust but,” he pauses, inclining his head toward John. “I’m sure there will be great incentives,” he says, reaching out to fiddle with the man’s soggy collar.

“I will die,” Sherlock tone is flat, face expressionless as he stares down at the purple line. He needs to understand everything this entails. He is not reckless or brash like John. After all, he is not human. And while he can feel a warm tempest brewing inside him, he has not yet relinquished his sharp mind.

“You will be mortal, so eventually, yes, you will die.” It sounds so simple and yet completely unprecedented. “But you will also have a human heart—delicate but strong.” Sherlock can hear the admiration in Mycroft’s voice. “Well, it’s a big decision,” Mycroft claps his hands together, leading them back into his office. “I’ll have Greta bring you some tea.” With that, he slips out the main door.

 

 

The tea grows colder by the minute while John stands at ease in the middle of the large office watching his former caseworker pace back and forth. Sherlock has not spoken for the better half of an hour, just trudging back and forth. John idly wonders if it is in fact possible to wear a hole in a carpet as posh as the one adorning Mycroft’s floor.

Sherlock stops, staring at the floor.

“Would you still have ‘feelings’ for me?”

“Of course,” John says as if it is the most obvious thing in the world. He takes a step toward Sherlock but the man continues pacing.

“You said you were interested in me because I was ‘different.’” Perhaps that is the only reason. “I will be human.”

“Sherlock, honestly,” John sighs, throwing his hands up.

“Do not patronise me, John.” Sherlock turns, striding over to stand directly in front of John. “I am simply unfamiliar with the actual logistics of this, this thing. You humans take over that bit for us.”

“You will still be you.” John runs his thumb along the wool collar of Sherlock’s greatcoat. His fingertips brush against the soft hairs curling around the nape of Sherlock’s neck.

He wants to kiss him again.

“How can you be so sure?” Brows furrowed, Sherlock desperately seeks out the source of John’s confidence. He does not understand, will not understand until he accepts the fate Mycroft is offering. “Emotions are extremely powerful, especially 'this' one.” Sherlock fails to label it, unsure if he is even allowed to use the word without properly experiencing. “I’ve seen it destroy great men.” For him, it remains a sensation, just an illusive brush of heat and pressure building inside his body.

“Well, I’m sure you’ve also seen it do quite the opposite.” John counters with a wistful smile. How romantic. How shortsighted.

“I may be completely different,” he warns and instantly shuffles through all the variants of his own abrasive persona combined with the explosiveness of human emotions. Perhaps it is possible to tame them, rein them in but that is most likely the polar opposite of Mycroft’s intent. Not to mention, unfair to John Watson’s deep affections. “Maladaptive.” The word is cumbersome and vile on his tongue but sounding like the obvious outcome to his logical mind. “It’s an enormous risk, John. I—”

“Like you said,” John’s eyes are bright and alluring. “I’ve always enjoyed danger.”

“I don’t,” Sherlock stiffens, shoulders back, spine straight and his voice drops to barely above a whisper. “I don’t want to disappoint you.”

John stares unblinking and Sherlock does not have a single clue as to how he is meant to read the man’s usually expressive face.

“Sherlock,” his voice sounds odd and Sherlock can only feel strange alternating currents of hot and cold running up the length of his body. It is uncomfortable, as if John is trying to suppress his instincts. A warm hand catches his elbow, pulling him over to the chair situated in front of Mycroft’s desk. John pushes him down into the seat, standing between his sprawling legs. “I’m not going to deny that I want this, badly,” he says honestly, moving to crouch down, hands gently placed on Sherlock’s knees. They simply rest there and Sherlock wants to cover them with his own. He resists the pull, focusing on the words spilling from John’s lips. “But it has to be your choice,” John pauses, his mouth dry, “I don’t want you to resent me.”

He cups the man’s face in his hands, drawing him up to examine the painfully earnest eyes.

This is John Watson, the man who would risk his fragile human life for him, who wants him to be a part of that tiny existence, who would surrender his own wilful nature to a partnered life. John, who was ready to give up his everything in order to protect Sherlock. John, who radiates a beautiful warmth strong enough to permeate muscle and bone and create the incredible illusion of a beating heart inside his empty chest.

How can he resist John?

How can he possibly resist the chance to unravel the mysteries of the John’s autonomy, to fully understand the intricacies of his existence and delve head first into a world without a Plan?

“John…”

He bends into Sherlock, hands against the armrests while he presses the back of Sherlock’s head against the chair with the force of his kiss. Sherlock hooks his long fingers into the space between buttons on John’s cardigan, feeling the water-damaged fabric yield to his touch. Tipping his head back, feeling flushed from head to toe, Sherlock turns to look at the office door.

“Mycroft,” he yells. The door swings open and before Sherlock has a chance to begin to explain his decision, it is clear that Mycroft knows.

“Oh, superb,” his smile is so genuine that it almost baffles Sherlock as to how his brother’s features know how to twist themselves in that particular manner. “I was rather not looking forward to resetting poor Doctor Watson.” John takes a small step back as Sherlock rises from the chair. “Now, this will only take a moment.” Mycroft steps forward, gripping Sherlock’s biceps. He moves to stand opposite. “I will miss you dearly, brother.” Sherlock can see Mycroft struggling to express an emotion that he is unable to truly feel. “I’ll try and check in from time to time. It has been quite a while since I ventured into the ‘fray’,” he laughs.

“No caseworkers,” Sherlock responds, pointing at his brother, face pulled into a stern scowl. “For either of us.”

“I’m sure you would notice straightaway,” he brushes the weak threat off easily. “You two will be my little experiment. Perhaps man is ready for a new age of free will.”

“Surveillance is to be kept to an absolute minimum.” Mycroft smiles but makes no such guarantee. “Mycroft.” Sherlock’s voice is a low warning as he steps closer in an attempt at intimidation. Mycroft spares him the mocking laugh, opting to pat him on the cheek. His fingertips feel like pinpricks against his skin, icy and metallic. Curious. The sensation is completely foreign, invasive almost and Sherlock wants to pull away but he cannot seem to find the strength to move.

“Please take care of him, John,” Mycroft instructs and he almost sounds concerned.

Sherlock feels dizzy, everything blurs in and out of focus and he is so tired. Long legs faltering, he stumbles back, away from Mycroft. He has never felt so exhausted, as if the only thing that will cure the sensation is a long, proper sleep. Deep sleep. Like a human. And he feels impossibly warm arms wrapping around him and, oh, that is rather nice. He could fall asleep right now in those arms. Sherlock’s deadweight is scooped up in the man’s arms. The last thing he remembers is John’s face, creased with worry, staring down at him as he promises something to Mycroft.


	2. Epilogue

It’s exactly 7:28 when Sherlock stirs, rolling over and cracking an eye open. At first his vision is nothing but a white blur, and it’s an unexpected sensation. He stares unseeingly at the vaguely familiar clock coming into focus. Somewhere in the back of his mind he registers that the item belongs to one Doctor John Watson and it usually resides in his bedroom. He sits bolt upright, but collapses back onto the spring mattress.

His head is spinning.

It worked.

“John?” His voice sounds rough, weak with disuse. When no response comes a sharp tightness constricts the width of his chest, as if all the air is being forced from his lungs. What is that? Where is John? He experiences a slight sense of relief when his synapses start firing correctly, sharp mind conjuring up a hundred possible explanations. At least that bit is familiar. “John?” He calls louder, propping himself up on an elbow, angling is body toward the open bedroom door.

It is too far and he is still too weak.

“Sherlock!” John appears in the doorway carrying a tray laden with food. He rushes to Sherlock’s side, depositing the tray on the bedside table before plopping down on the mattress.

Sherlock is wholly unprepared for the rush of emotions that surge through him the instant he sees John standing in the doorway. There are too many to properly catalogue and he struggles to identify all of them in the barrage of humanity. Instead, he focuses on the most memorable one, dissecting it as he allows it full access to his body.

“Oh,” and his hands are everywhere, skimming over John’s lips, clavicles, wrists, thighs before the man catches them. Sherlock knows John believes he is punishing him by restricting his wandering touch, but the doctor’s hands are just as interesting and satisfying against his surprisingly reactive flesh.

Human flesh.

Oh, how magnificent.

Sherlock stares at John’s hands clasped around his own. It never felt like this before. Not when he was tugging John all over London or handing him a coffee. He can feel every ridge and valley of John’s palm, the swirls of his fingerprints.

“Here,” John says, pushing Sherlock’s hands back against the man’s chest. He retrieves the breakfast tray and Sherlock cannot suppress the urge to run his hand along the elegant curve of John’s back. “Mycroft said you would need to eat when you woke up.” Fingertips slide over the faint bumps of his spine beneath the thin shirt. Sherlock thinks that John should be the one to eat the wonderful smelling breakfast instead of him—though his stomach would disagree. “Never really thought about it much before, but I suppose angels don’t really eat…” He turns back and Sherlock withdrawals immediately, recoiling with a wide-eyed look of innocence. “So you probably don’t know what you like but that’s why I’ve brought a little of everything,” he smiles and Sherlock pinpoints another emotion bubbling up inside his chest. It’s much more subdued than the first.

Perhaps it is simple affection?

“I’m rather partial to toast and jam in the mornings.”

“Not an angel, John,” Sherlock corrects him, his old tone of condescension mitigated slightly by that new edge of fondness. “Definitely human,” he says slowly, glancing down at himself. He can sense every inch of his body, from his toes to the backs of his knees to the tips of his ears, parts of himself he never gave a second thought to before.

“Eat. Now.” John holds out a piece of toast smothered in strawberry jam.

Sherlock wrinkles his nose, experimentally sniffing before flicking a tongue out to try the jam.

“Not bad,” he declares before stuffing the entire piece in his mouth.

A whole world of colour dances over his tongue and he has never experienced anything like it. It only takes him five minutes to clean his plate, devouring everything in sight while periodically rating the items on a scale of one to ‘oh, this it what it tastes like!’

Afterwards, he asks if he can touch John again but falls asleep before he can gather his strength to even properly kiss him. He files away the sound of John’s breathy laugh against his cheek. Soft blankets are pushed back and the man joins him in bed. He tucks Sherlock’s head under his chin, carding a hand through his sleep-mussed curls.

 

It takes nearly a day and a half of rest, periodic meals, and odd conversations about what is considered ‘normal’ before Sherlock gathers the strength, basic understanding of his body and confusing web of emotions to asks John if he will ‘put his hands on him.’ John laughs at the odd expression coupled with Sherlock’s rather Victorian declaration, all wound up in one of John’s old dressing gowns that is much too small and plain for the tall man. Sherlock supposes he must cut quite an eccentric figure but presses on nonetheless, eager to explore the new possibilities of their potential human relationship.

Or whatever it is sparking between them like white-hot electricity.

The kissing bit had been quite nice, after all.

And, Sherlock is delighted, but not surprised, to find that John is more than willing, though tentative, to accommodate him.

“You sure?” The fingertips of John’s left hand trace the long stretch of bare skin from Sherlock’s knee to his hipbone, along the hyper sensitive skin of his inner thigh.

“Yes.” Sherlock swallows thickly; he has never been so aware of the shifting topography of his own body.

Everywhere John touches him burns, just a bit, but Sherlock thinks he might grow to like the heady feeling coiling inside him. What makes his breath catch is the look of reverence glazing over John’s bright eyes. That look, solely focused on him, makes the pressure gathering low in his stomach increase ten-fold, pulsing throughout his body like quicksilver. The heart inside his chest starts pumping blood faster, until he thinks he can feel his pulse all the away in the ends of his toes and the very tips of his fingers. He reaches out to anchor himself on John, blunt nails dragging over flushed skin.

Oh, and John seems to be in quite a state himself.

“Sherlock?” John asks, unable to tell if Sherlock is enjoying himself or if he is positively mortified by his body’s base responses.

“John,” he moans, his hand twitching against John’s hip as he ducks his head down. “John, stop, it’s too…” Making a strange noise in the back of his throat, he finds himself unable to accurately articulate the overwhelming sensations coursing through his newly reactive body. “I’m too hot.” Sherlock kicks off the thin sheets covering them, but it only helps marginally. “Is this what it feels like? All the time?” Sprawled out on the small mattress, he stares up at the ceiling.

“Don’t know, Sherlock, I was never an angel.” John teases, prompting Sherlock to roll his eyes dramatically. He extracts himself from John’s arms, sitting up with his back to the man. With a sigh, John reaches out, placing his hand on the small of Sherlock’s naked back. “What was it like before?”

“In a word,” he sniffs, drawing his knees up to his chest. “Cold.” All of his attention is drawn to the single point of contact between them and it is maddening. He shoves it aside, focusing instead on his words and thoughts and reasoning and definitely not the ridiculous patterns John is tracing on his back. “Though I had nothing to compare it to until you started botching things up—all warm and affectionate,” he glances over his shoulder to throw John a nasty look.

“It’ll get easier.” John pulls him back down on to the bed, restricting his hands to the area above the man’s waist. “It’s human nature, after all.”

They kiss. Kissing, languid, unhurried kissing. Yes, Sherlock knows he can do that much just fine.

At least John has yet to complain.

 

 

For the first time since becoming human, Sherlock finds it difficult to sleep. It appears that certain habits are hard to completely erase. The only difference is the unfulfilled fatigue that nags at the back of his mind. He rolls over to watch the gentle rise and fall of John’s chest. It is familiar, something he has done a thousand times while serving as the man’s caseworker. Though, it had been the most difficult part of his job once they returned to London. He would sit and watch, helpless, as his man broke out in a cold sweat, reliving all their worst memories of Afghanistan. Now, John is peaceful and it makes the corners of Sherlock’s mouth twist up. Quietly, he moves to sit cross-legged on the mattress.

When his eyes adjust, he looks around the small bedroom of John’s flat. He sees the abandoned cane gathering dust in the corner and smiles to himself. Next, he discovers his coat folded on a nearby chair, almost within reach. It is tempting to look, to check his journal one last time and see the old Plan that has fallen to the wayside. To make sure Mycroft kept his word.

John stirs and Sherlock’s eyes dart back to watch him mumble something incoherent. He flings an arm out to where Sherlock’s chest should be. When John discovers nothing there, panicked blue eyes snap open and Sherlock is reminded of one particularly bad night terror.

“I’ve been thinking,” Sherlock says before John’s dark imagination gets the better of him.

“What? Oh. Grand.” John responds, still half asleep as he slumps back on to his pillow with a soft whoosh.

“You would have remembered.”

“What are y—”

“If you’d been…” Sherlock gestures to his own head. John suppresses a slight cringe at the thought of being reset. “You would have remembered me.”

“I was wondering when vanity would rear its ugly head.” John knows better than to point out how painfully sentimental the idea is and opts to just wiggle closer.

“Oh shush,” Sherlock muzzles him with a hand. He feels playful? Curious. Perhaps this is why John teases him so? And John laughs softly, easily pulling Sherlock’s hand away from his mouth.

“Do you miss it?” John reaches up to tuck a few curls behind Sherlock’s ear. Sherlock knows that it is good that the man is not afraid to ask.

“Actually…” Sherlock catches his wrist as he swings a leg over the man’s narrow hips, straddling his waist. “Not knowing makes the game more fun.” He pins the hand above John’s head, abandoning it there in favour of exploring John’s body stretched out beneath him.

Yes, this is much better—a vast improvement over their last attempt. This bit he is starting to understand. John looks at him like he is real. Not an angel, no ‘holy’ reverence in his blue eyes; just complex, foolishly assured, downright stupid, human love. And it fills him up so that the only thing missing is the need for more; more time together, more excitement and always more adventures.

Less predictability, more spontaneity—free will.

“Like with you, John. A warrior and a doctor, punching out villains and saving the hero despite being the quintessential damsel in distress.” Sherlock thinks he really fancies this teasing thing, especially when it causes John to bristle at being accurately labelled the damsel.

“Hero?”

“You constantly surprise me,” Sherlock says, pointedly ignoring John’s cheek. His long fingers splay against the man’s warm chest. “No Plan to obsess over.” John’s heartbeat is strong and growing quicker beneath his hand. Intoxicating. He swoops down to nip at the tip of John’s nose before dropping a kiss to his lips. “A proper puzzle.” A smile breaks out over his face and Sherlock definitely knows this one, yes, he’s felt it before. He never knew it had a proper name until now.

Exhilaration.

 

 

(End)


End file.
